


endure

by cloudburst



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 18:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19011550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: They kissed on the battlements, Cullen’s gloved fingertips digging into the harsh material of the Inquisitor’s overcoat. Hot breath on his neck—he was alive.





	endure

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this on an airplane

He hears the pounding in his head—well, senses it more than hears it, feels the blood rushing through his veins, warming his body as his men are burned alive. The Herald will not be able to endure this: an archdemon, a dragon, a nemesis of that caliber. It means everything and absolutely nothing at all as the Herald stays behind, for there had only been the possibility of feeling—of something real, but it had never come to fruition. It means nothing, but Cullen cannot stem the sickness rising in his throat as he thinks of the Herald of Andraste, as he thinks of him battered and broken, as he thinks of him lifeless—light brown eyes going black as they lose their light. 

He suggests that perhaps the Herald will find a way, but the words ring hollow despite his best intentions. He feels the distinct lack of weight from his actions as he watches the Herald run off to die, Cassandra, Varric, and Vivienne in tow. He had never thought to see any of them again. But then there he was, bruised but alive. Cullen was met with the crushing realization that he had left this man to die, cheekbones sharp as his wit, intricate vallaslin stretching across the bridge of his nose. Cullen was _weak._ Yet, there was no helping him. He could not be cured, in more ways than one. 

The Herald was pleased that Cullen yet lived, and Cullen was pleased that he was. He was infatuated, had known it since perhaps the first time he saw Lavellan. But it was not simply innocent friendship or passionate love, or lust, it was all three—a mixed drink stronger than any Ferelden templar or Mabari war hound. He was in love, but he could not—would not say it. There was no way Inquisitor Lavellan felt the same, until he did. 

They kissed on the battlements, Cullen’s gloved fingertips digging into the harsh material of the Inquisitor’s overcoat. Hot breath on his neck—he was alive. 

He hears the pounding in his head—well, feels it more than hears it, but feels the blood rushing through his veins, warming his body as his men burned alive. The Herald will not be able to endure this: an archdemon, a dragon, a nemesis of that caliber. It means everything and absolutely nothing at all as the Herald stays behind. Cullen grasps for him, but Lavellan must stay—must endure for his people, fight off Corypheus. 

He dies on that mountain. Cullen finds his lifeless body next to the trebuchet, dark brown hair matted with long-dried blood. Cullen chokes on the bile rising in his throat. It means nothing, but Cullen cannot stem the sickness as he thinks of the Herald of Andraste, as he thinks of him battered and broken, as he thinks of him lifeless—light brown eyes going black as they lose their light, going black as they are, Cullen’s body racked with sobs. 

He screams out. He wakes up to warm arms around his shoulders—brown hair tickling his neck. 

“It’s okay, Cullen.”

A breath. 

“Bellanaris.”

**Author's Note:**

> (: :)


End file.
